


An Open Home

by Saziikins



Series: Family Ties [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Greg is a single parent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2695250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Christmas Eve, Greg invites Sherlock to spend the festive season with him and the twins. But there's so much in their history that Sherlock isn't sure he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set between The Empty Hearse and The Sign Of Three. Perhaps it's a little early for Christmas fics, but it is December tomorrow.
> 
> This is part of a series of fics. They will not be published in chronological order, and I hope each story will add a new insight to the one before and after it. They should also work as stand-alones. 
> 
> This one may have a second part. I haven't decided yet.

“Right, so, I guess that’s it then. All wrapped up.” Greg looked up from his paperwork, flashing Sherlock a smile. “Cheers for the help. Sorry it took so long.”

Sherlock nodded, moving to sit on the edge of his chair. “It’s fine,” he said, rolling his shoulders.

“You alright?”

Sherlock hummed. “Fed up with paperwork.”

Greg grinned, nodding at him as he put his pen back in the pot. “Yeah. Tell me about it.” They both gazed at each other for a moment, Greg’s warm smile fading into something full of nostalgia and… regret.

Sherlock looked away, wringing his hands. “Are you working long?” he asked, standing up and picking his coat up from the back of the chair.

Greg shook his head. “Nah, I’m done. Got Christmas off this year.”

Sherlock fastened the buttons of the Belstaff. “Oh right.”

“First year the kids have had a stable Christmas. Well, sort of, I suppose.” Greg frowned for a moment, looking looking around his desk for all his papers. He collected them up, tapping them against the desk to straighten them.

Sherlock nodded. He knew Greg’s wife had gone with her new partner to live in America. She’d never been good enough for the children anyway, but he couldn’t help but think her emigration was an insult to the family she’d left behind. The family she could have had, anyway. Not that she’d ever been keen on keeping it.

“Have a nice Christmas then,” Sherlock murmured, turning for the door.

“What you doing tomorrow?” Greg asked.

Sherlock hesitated before glancing back over his shoulder. “I was invited to spend it with John and Mary,” he said.

“Oh yeah? You going?”

Sherlock frowned. He hated how Greg saw through him. “I. No.”

Greg nodded, leaning down to grab something from one of the desk drawers. Sherlock opened the door to go.

“Come to mine,” Greg said to his back.

Sherlock froze. “Thank you, but no," he said, taking another step out of the office. "I have plenty to do.”

“Please,” Greg said. “I can’t do this, Sherlock. You and me not talking, it doesn’t work.”

“It works just fine." 

Greg shook his head. “No. No, it doesn’t. Please. Come tonight, help me prepare Christmas dinner and we’ll play games or… or something.”

Sherlock turned to face him. “You don’t have to ask to be kind.”

Greg glanced down at his hands. “I know,” he said softly. His dark eyes flicked up to Sherlock’s. “I’m not doing it to be kind to you, Sher. I’m doing it to be kind to Matt and Lily.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “They don’t know me.”

“They know enough.”

Sherlock scoffed. “What? A couple of CDs and…”

“Sherlock.” Greg’s voice was firm. “I know you want to see them. And…” Greg brushed his hands through his hair, shaking his head. “Please come. Come round tonight.”

Sherlock gazed at him for a moment. “Goodnight, Lestrade,” he said, turning and leaving the office.

* * *

He had plenty to be getting on with. Plenty of experiments and a lot of reading. But he couldn’t concentrate. Mrs Hudson had gone out and John and Mary were at John and Mary’s... He was just... here.

Sherlock had already turned down Christmas with his parents and Mycroft. He was determined to rest and recuperate. His bones ached. He was worn out and finished. Some of his pain he still felt he knew was psychological. His cuts, long-since scarred over, no longer hurt. But somehow they twinged, memories of cold nights and lonely mornings accompanying them.

He gazed out of the window, out at the houses with their Christmas lights.

It was a pointless occasion really, an annual ritual full of sentiment where families pretend to tolerate each other so they can be together.

Not there. Not in Greg’s household. There may only be three of them, just Greg and the twins, but Sherlock could already imagine their laughter and happy squeals as they opened their presents.

Sherlock had last seen them two years ago, before the jump from the roof. He doubted they’d remember his face, let alone his name. But the thought of them, small and innocent, made him long to pull them in his arms and teach them all sorts of things. Little minds learning about the world, open to all sorts of ideas.

With a growl, Sherlock got up from his desk and pulled his coat on. He dumped some clothes into a bag and walked out into the night.

* * *

Shops. He hated shops. Shops on Christmas Eve were even worse. But he managed to go into Debenhams, buying Greg a scarf. He found some board games for the children. He wrapped them in the taxi, rushed and impatient. And then finally, he was alone out in the street.

He gazed at Greg’s terraced house from the other side of the road. There was a garish blue wreath on the red door, colourful flickering lights hanging inside what Sherlock knew was the kitchen window. The hallway light was on, and so was one of the upstairs bedrooms. One of the children’s bedrooms.

The upstairs light went out, a soft glow left in its wake. A night light. Lily’s room then.

Sherlock swallowed at the ache in his chest. He looked up at the cloudless sky, took one deep breath and crossed the road. He tapped the knocker, not too loud so as not to alert the children.

He heard the footsteps and looked around the street. There was no time to leave now, not without Greg seeing him walk away. Who chose to live in a road like this, with nowhere to run and hide?

He pushed his hands into his coat pockets as the door was opened. Greg stood and stared at him for a few seconds, before stepping aside without a word. Sherlock stepped in, glancing around. There was bright pink and gold tinsel trailing up the handrail going up the stairs.

Sherlock couldn’t help the half smile that formed on his face. Greg frowned and turned to follow his gaze. He chuckled. “Not my choice of colour scheme,” Greg said with a smile. “Hang your coat up there. Want a drink?”

“Tea will do,” Sherlock said, pulling his gloves off. He tucked them into his coat pockets and took it off, hanging it onto the coat stand. He kicked his shoes off, giving a little wistful smile at the tiny wellies by the door. He followed Greg through the hallway into the kitchen. He waited by the door as the kettle boiled, Greg busying himself with the teabags and milk and sugar.

He nodded as Greg handed him the mug. “Living room?” Sherlock asked.

Greg nodded. “Go for it.”

Sherlock turned and walked through the house, laughing softly when he caught sight of the tree. It must have been the largest Greg could find, the pink angel at the top scraping the ceiling with her halo.

The branches were full of every bauble and decoration imaginable, from footballs to glitterballs. The decorations seemed to be of every colour. Presents, all wrapped by Greg judging by the haphazard way they’d been folded, were stacked beneath the tree.

There were drawings of Santa and snowmen (Sherlock could only assume) on the walls, and more Christmas lights than one room should have. Sherlock smiled, turning round to see Greg had already sunk down onto one of the sofas, one leg crossed over the other.

“What you reckon?” Greg asked. “I’ve still got to fill the stockings. And then I’ve made a fake fireplace out of boxes.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “You’ve made a fake fireplace?”

“Well, I can’t hang stockings on the radiator, can I?” Greg grinned. “Matt’s been worrying all month that Santa’s not going to visit ‘cause we don’t have a chimney. So I made a fireplace. And I’ve got some fake snow and I’m going to put footprints in it and little fake reindeer poops on the floor.”

Sherlock snorted and turned back to study the tree. He reached out and touched a small stocking made out of felt.

“Lily made it at Rainbows,” Greg said. “And um… well, they did the drawings at school. Lily’s obsessed with football, so she wanted the balls on the trees, but she covered ‘em in glitter first. And then Matt wanted the superheroes so… Batman and Iron Man are on the tree too.”

“My mother would hate this,” Sherlock said, glancing around the room. “It’s perfect.”

Greg snorted. “Not very co-ordinated, I’ll admit that. I guess I went a bit over the top this year.”

“They’re five now,” Sherlock said, frowning. He’d missed so much. “They’ll remember this Christmas.”

“I hope so.”

Sherlock nodded and took a seat on the other sofa, trying to relax against the cushions. “Did you prepare dinner?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’ve cut up the veg and the potatoes. Turkey’s in the fridge and it’s pretty much sorted.”

Sherlock blew on his tea before taking a sip. “Did you want me to do anything?” he asked.

“You can help me stuff the stockings.”

Sherlock nodded. He drank his tea in silence, watching as the coloured lights changed and flickered. After a little while, Greg stood up and wandered into the dining room. He returned carrying his homemade fireplace. Just a few cardboard boxes covered in white paper and then red paper bricks. But it was surprisingly effective, and Sherlock imagined the twins would adore it.

Greg placed it in front of the wall beside the tree. “What do you think?”

“They’ll love it.”

Greg beamed as he reached out to touch it. “I hope so. It’s been a tough year for them, with their mum going. Not that they saw her much really but… it’s weird, isn’t it? They’re different from all the other kids at school and beginning to notice. I want them to think they’ve had the best Christmas in the world.”

Sherlock stayed silent before leaning forward to place his mug on the table. “Where are the stockings and gifts?” he asked.

“Dining room,” Greg said. Sherlock followed him in, accepting one of the black bin bags Greg handed to him. They sat in silence on the floor, filling the red stockings with everything from chocolate coins and books to stationery and magazines.

When they’d finished, Greg hung them on the makeshift fireplace. Sherlock sat back down on the sofa as Greg sprinkled fake snow on the floor, using a pair of his shoes to make footprints on the carpet. He sprinkled the fake reindeer poop he’d bought at Poundland on the floor, and snapped a carrot in half, leaving it by the fire.

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile at the effort he’d gone to. And for the first time since his return, he felt his shoulders slump. He was… drained. Done. Finished off by the love and consideration Greg was able to give to his two children, freely and easily. And alone.

Sherlock’s chest ached, and he breathed as though a stack of bricks was weighing it down. He could only watch as Greg walked to the CD player, picking up a case from the side.

Sherlock tilted his head and watched. And then let out a soft hum of surprise as the first note of a violin swept past his ears. Matt and Lily’s birthday song, for their birthdays in 2012.

He closed his eyes, listening to his own composition, unhappy at some parts of it, not sure he’d captured their joyous spirit in the music at all. He’d been in Romania when he composed this, lying low in a military safehouse. He’d written the music without once ever being able to rehearse it. He played it on a borrowed violin, a mishandled and unloved instrument. Somehow he’d performed it all in one take, recording it onto his phone before emailing it to Mycroft.

And Mycroft had been as good as his word and delivered it for the twins’ birthday. The fifth composition Sherlock had written for them.

Sherlock tapped his finger against his knee as he listened to its final flourish. Two missed notes in a row, painful off-key notes which spilled out a million bad memories, made him flinch. He could only recall how he’d had tears in his eyes as he’d ground out those final bars. Then he’d collapsed into the worn-out sofa in that safehouse, glad Greg was okay, alive, protecting the most important things in his life. Sherlock sat, wishing he could have been there with him instead of that cold and mould-covered safehouse. He had longed to be with all three of them, watching the children listen to their birthday song for the first time.

He opened his eyes at last, flicking up to meet Greg’s. Greg was stood still by the CD player, a small post-it note held out in his hand. Sherlock reached out and took it from him. He glanced down at the paper. It was smudged from where it had been pulled out often. It smelt faintly of copper coins and a leather wallet. And on that paper, a figure of eight. And six words in Sherlock’s handwriting.

_I will be back for you._

Sherlock swallowed, gazing up at him. It had been more than a month-and-a-half since he’d returned, never once having an inkling Greg really missed him, much less wanted him back.

But it seemed as though the handing over of this note meant Greg was letting go. Sherlock may have come back for him, but Greg was through with waiting. And Sherlock had always known it was inevitable. It was sad to see it play out that way.

“I believed you,” Greg whispered, his voice cracking a bit. “And you did what you said you would do.”

Sherlock hardly dared to breathe as he watched him.

Greg swallowed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You came back, just like you said. But I can’t… I’m still… furious.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, not meeting his eyes and rubbing his hands against his knees. “You have every right.”

Greg shook his head. “When you left, they were three-years-old, and they barely knew you. But if I let you back in, even just as friends, then I need you to stay.”

“I can’t promise I can,” Sherlock murmured.

“I know. We’ve just… not reached the same point in our lives yet, right?”

“No,” Sherlock agreed. “I have unfinished business. And you need to give them everything.”

Greg sighed. “I try. And most of the time, I think I do okay. I don’t get to pick them up from school a lot, and they spend a lot of nights round at my sister’s house, but she only lives a few roads away.” Greg shuffled his feet, frowning. “Wasn’t supposed to be this way, but I tried to do what I could.” By myself. Those words remained unsaid, but Sherlock heard them nonetheless.

And he realised that he’d abandoned Greg in the same way his wife had. Worse, perhaps. Greg may have had the children with his wife, but Sherlock had known them since the day they were born too. He’d played the violin for them when they were just six-weeks-old, when Greg was barely holding it together, becoming a single parent out of the blue. Sherlock had seen it coming. Greg never had.

And through the next years, though they’d always tried to end it, though Sherlock claimed their relationship distracted him from the work and they fought to end their affair time and time again… it was never over.

And at the end, those final days before the Fall, Sherlock promised he and Greg would one day find a place where they wanted the same things.

God, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to pitch a flag in Greg’s house and call it home. The place he would rest his head night after night, tired and content.

He frowned when he realised he’d been staring. “Sorry,” he said. “I was…”

“In your Mind Palace,” Greg said with a bemused smile. “It’s okay.”

“Do they… what do they know about me?”

Greg shrugged and sat down on the sofa beside Sherlock. “That you’re the one who writes all this beautiful music for them. Music that Lily finds really boring, by the way. But Matt likes it. They know you’re someone I’ve missed, because there’s a photo of you in my bedroom. That one of you in the stupid deerstalker.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Greg was smiling at him.

“They know you’ve been away,” Greg continued, his smile faltering. “That you’re daddy’s best friend, and he’s missed you. They know about the day they were born and why Matt’s middle name is William and why Lily is called Lily. They know enough, Sherlock. Enough that when they see you in the morning, they’ll be glad you’re here.”

Sherlock shook his head. “How can I do this to you? To them? Knowing that I’ll be gone on Boxing Day and I can’t make promises. I can’t… I’m not the man you want.”

“You are,” Greg whispered. “You always have been and you know that.”

“But I can’t be the things you want. I can’t give you the things you deserve.”

Greg paused for a moment before speaking. “Not yet.” Sherlock glanced at him, at the sincerity radiating through those brown eyes. “You can’t give me those things yet,” Greg repeated. “But I’ve waited eight years already. Haven’t got any plans to stop waiting. You told me we’d meet in the middle one day and I believed that.”

“How can you?” Sherlock asked. “What evidence have I ever given you to prove that was true?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Greg said. “You’re here and not talking to you has been killing me. Not… not touching you is killing me. Even if it’s one night a year, one kiss a year, I’ll wait for the next one.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a brief moment. “People die in limbo,” he murmured. He would never understand why Greg gave him the time of day like this.

“I’d rather die in limbo waiting for you than find someone I couldn’t ever want as much.”

Sherlock frowned. “How do you know? That there isn’t someone else better?”

“I just do, Sherlock. I just do, alright?” And then Greg leaned forward, reaching out with one hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek. He brought their faces within a breath of each other. “I just know nothing’s ever gonna compare to what you and me have when we’re together.”

And then he kissed him. Warm lips pressing against Sherlock’s and he responded in kind in an instant, holding Greg’s hand to his cheek. The world, his fears, his battle-worn body melted into oblivion. He was sat still in time, locked in a tender embrace. Mouths meeting in exploring touches, rediscovering, remembering. All so familiar, yet so far away.

Everything. Greg had always been everything and nothing. He was the whole universe. Yet he was only one person, full of his own failings and for all of his beautiful, kind sentiments, he too was full of broken promises and hollow words.

But when they broke apart, their foreheads resting together, Sherlock felt calmed. For the first time since he’d arrived back in London, he knew he was safe and it was time to let go.

Since he’d known them, Greg and the twins had been his secret life. The part of his heart he’d never closed off. The memories he’d never deleted. And one day, Sherlock truly wanted to return to them, to give all he had to them.

He wasn’t ready yet, but if Greg would wait then Sherlock would march towards him and find him. He owed him that much.

Sherlock opened his eyes and pressed little closed-mouth kisses to Greg’s cheeks and jaw, releasing a soft hum when their lips met again.

“Stay tonight,” Greg whispered. “Give me this one Christmas. It’s the first one I’ve ever hosted, and I’m convinced I’m gonna mess up dinner.”

Sherlock managed a chuckle. “I’m not much better at cooking myself.”

Greg snorted. “Oh God. Let’s not talk about the birthday cake incident, shall we?”

Sherlock began to laugh, shaking his head. “I told you never to mention that again.”

Greg mimed zipping his lips. “It’ll die with me,” he said with a grin. He stood up and held his hand out to Sherlock. “Come to bed with me,” he whispered.

“It’s not even 8pm,” Sherlock said.

“It’s dark. It’s Christmas Eve. And the kids are going to wake us up the second the sun’s out.”

Sherlock laughed and took Greg’s proffered hand. He gazed up at him. “I haven’t had a Christmas since I jumped from Bart’s. I’m… rather looking forward to this one.”

Greg smiled warmly at him. “Then you won’t mind when I tell you about the Santa suit you have wear.”

Sherlock could only laugh as he followed Greg out of the room, both switching off lights as they went. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter didn't quite feel 'over'. So this is a direct continuation of where it ended, but this is the last one in this story. But there will be more in the series to come.

They didn’t say a word as they changed into their clothes for bed. Sherlock elected for his pyjama trousers and a light t-shirt, Greg went shirtless with a pair of shorts.

They could only watch each other from across the bed, exchanging looks when they thought the other couldn’t see. Greg pulled his corner of the duvet back first, sliding in under the covers. Sherlock did likewise, until they lay on their backs beside each other in silence. A cold void filled the space between them. Sherlock wriggled his toes, watching the covers move.

Greg leaned over and flicked the lamp off. He sighed as he lay back down. “I’m not actually tired,” he muttered, before chuckling. “This was a stupid idea, wasn’t it?”

“Yep,” Sherlock agreed. “Just like children all over the country. Hoping if they go to bed earlier, Christmas will be here sooner. Except they’re all far too excited to sleep.”

Sherlock turned onto his side, his eyes adjusting to the dark. The streetlight outside provided enough light through the red curtains to bring Greg’s face into focus.

Greg turned onto his side too, and they stayed watching each other for a few moments. Sherlock swallowed back the oppressive tension between them, focusing instead on the dark circles under Greg’s overworked eyes. He was growing older, he realised now. His eyes strained when he read, and soon he would probably be electing for glasses.

Two years of running had been far too long for both of them. For Sherlock, it was too many nights of never-ending darkness and too many days which could be the last.

They met in the middle, lips crushing together in a desperate clinch. They panted as their nails dug into each other’s skin, breathing hard, teeth clanging together. Undignified. Desperate. God it was like drowning. The intensity of battle, forcing tongues into mouths and forgetting how to breathe. Gasping for air, then meeting again, groping, digging crescent shaped bruises into skin. And then they stopped, pulled apart by the riptide.

Greg’s lips were parted, glistening. He gave a sharp shake of his head. “I can’t,” he whispered against Sherlock’s mouth. “Make that shouldn’t. Promised myself I wouldn’t.”

Sherlock reached out, brushing the backs of his fingers against Greg’s cheek, soft skin there until he reached his jaw, the beginning of stubble already forming. “Then we won’t,” he said. “I’ll leave this in your hands.”

“I haven’t got much self-control when it comes to you,” Greg said, with a resentful snort of laughter.

“Then we’ll… not touch.” Sherlock dropped his hand onto the pillow. It felt cold there. He had never sought physical contact in any sense until he met Greg and, well, took leave of his senses. And now, touch-deprived for more than two years, he craved Greg’s skin. He wanted Greg to consume him until he didn’t need to run anymore.

But it wasn’t his situation to dictate.

Greg took hold of his hand in both of his, shuffling closer so their feet touched beneath the covers. “Why don’t you tell me where you’ve been? And I’ll tell you where I’ve been.”

“You shouldn’t know,” Sherlock said. “You already know far too much. I took a risk in telling you I wasn’t dead.”

Greg snorted. “Bloody glad you did, Sherlock. Losing you… I don’t want to think about what that week felt like.”

Sherlock let the words linger for a second. “I went a lot of places. Tibet, India, Germany, Serbia. China. A lot of Eastern Europe. Mexico.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “You did get around.”

Sherlock nodded, stroking Greg’s fingers with his own. “Dismantling Moriarty’s web. I wasn’t… unassisted. Mycroft sent his associates to join me. And before I went, I spent a month in America, learning how to shoot different guns.”

“Shoot?” Greg repeated. “Right. Dangerous mission then.”

“Occasionally.”

“Did you… get hurt?”

“Yes.”

Greg squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Are you… I mean… is everything healed?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not everything. Mostly. Enough.”

“Oh, Sherlock, you stupid bastard.”

Sherlock smiled, leaning forward to nudge the tip of his nose against Greg’s. “I came back,” he said.

“Yeah,” Greg whispered. “Yeah, you did. Thank you for that.”

Sherlock nodded and returned his head back to the pillow, watching as Greg closed his eyes. “Where did you go?” he asked.

“No where exciting, to be honest,” Greg muttered. “I stayed here mostly. I had… obviously, there was job stuff I had to deal with. And um… that took a few months. But work and looking after the kids, really.”

“I see.”

Silence lingered in the air for a few minutes before Greg spoke again. “Sherlock… what do you… want? From this? From being here?”

“Want? I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” Greg sighed, letting go of Sherlock’s hand and slumping down onto the bed. “God, I saw you that day in the car park… The day you came back. You just looked the same. Sounded the same. It wasn’t the same.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know. It came as a surprise to me, I thought two years were nothing. Then I saw John. I was more afraid of seeing you than I was him. And you accepted it. At first, I suppose.”

“It got difficult, the more I thought about it,” Greg admitted, frowning. “You and me… what we have. Had. It’s always been a bit…”

“A bit…”

“Unhealthy,” Greg finished.

Sherlock sighed, rolling over onto his back. “It was never supposed to go so far. You were an experiment, nothing more than a way to alleviate the boredom.”

“No, I know,” Greg said. “It got… messy on the way. Somewhere, I don’t know where. I thought about us a lot, what we should have done, whether maybe we shouldn’t have bothered. I don’t even know why we tried, after that Christmas, the one at Baker Street? I don’t know why we genuinely thought we could make something work between us.”

Sherlock frowned.

“We could have the best Christmas here, tomorrow, and afterwards, you’re still going to go, aren’t you?” Greg asked. 

“Probably,” Sherlock said. “Almost definitely.”

“I don’t know if I lie here and have you and spend all day with you like you’re mine... Or whether it’s better that I just wait from a distance.”

“Only you can decide that.”

Greg sighed. “I know. It’s been too long, Sherlock. It’s too much for us to just… pick it up.”

“You’re right,” Sherlock murmured. He sat up. “I was… I shouldn’t have come.”

Greg reached out and grabbed his arm before he could slide out of bed. “No, I mean. It’s been too long since I’ve been with you. I’m not ready really, but I want it. Want you. Sex. With you. To get everything back.”

Sherlock frowned and turned back to him. He glanced down at Greg’s hand on his arm. “Don’t do something you’ll regret,” he murmured.

He heard Greg sigh. “Lie with me,” he said.

Sherlock nodded and got back under the covers, shuffling over to Greg so he could rest his head above his heart. Greg’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and he closed his eyes. They rested together for a while, neither of them falling asleep.

Sherlock listened to the steady beats of Greg’s heart, idly stroking his chest hair. He made a content sound as Greg kissed his hair and he looked up at him. Greg smiled and they shared a few tender kisses.

Sherlock rested his chin on Greg’s chest, staring up at him. It made him relax to see Greg’s genuine smile, his eyes lighting up as he reached out to toy with a strand of Sherlock’s hair.

“You’ve got that look in your eye,” Sherlock muttered, leaning up to playfully bite his chin.

“What look?”

“Like you’re about to say something schmaltzy.”

Greg laughed. “I’m not saying a word. Except, I was just remembering the Christmas after the twins were born.”

Sherlock grinned and lay back down on Greg’s chest, taking hold of his hand and taking time to stroke each finger in turn, re-learning the knuckles and his fingerprints. “What about that Christmas?”

“Well, the babies slept through all the fun bits,” Greg said with a nostalgic hum. “And there was snow, and you were a complete brat.”

Sherlock laughed. “I was? You were appalling at Charades.”

Greg chuckled, stroking Sherlock’s hair. “You were even worse, Sherlock. I think it was probably the least-successful game of Charades ever.”

“Until afterwards.”

Greg paused. “What happened afterwards?”

Sherlock chuckled. “I had to act that film… The Full Monty.”

Greg groaned. “Oh God. Yeah. You did.”

Sherlock smiled lifting Greg’s hand so he could kiss his fingers. “And then afterwards…”

“Afterwards was mind-blowing.”

Sherlock smiled and lifted his head again, his face serious. “I might not be ready for us to have a full-time relationship yet. But I will get there.”

Greg nodded, brushing his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “I know you will.”

Sherlock kissed him again before lying back down, content. “Are you going to fall asleep soon?” he asked.

“No,” Greg murmured. “No, I doubt it.”

“Read to me?”

Greg hummed in affirmation and gently pushed Sherlock off. He turned the lamp back on and tiptoed to the bookcase. Sherlock studied his body. His hair was greyer and he carried a little more around the middle. But he was otherwise the same, reassuring man he always had been. He shuffled over to give Greg some room as he got back into bed and Sherlock leaned against his chest, his eyes closed.

“I watched the old sailor from the window,” Greg began after opening the book. “He dragged a sea-chest to the door, looked out to sea for a while and started to sing.”

* * *

When Sherlock woke, it was with a fingers stroking his cheek and a warm smile gazing back at him. “Hi, there,” Greg murmured, leaning forward to kiss his forehead.

Sherlock smiled, rolling over to check the time. Greg was already dressed, lying on his side on the bed.

“Are the miniature Lestrades not up yet?” Sherlock asked, blinking into the light.

“They’re up. I came to wake you up so you could come and open the stockings with us.”

“Oh…” Sherlock frowned.

“You must have been shattered. You fell asleep after a few pages of the book and then you were out for the count.” Greg gave him a soft kiss before getting up. “Come on, sleepy head. The kids are excited to see you.”

Sherlock smiled and nodded, pulling the covers back. He stood up and stretched before rifling through his bag for some clothes. “I’ll meet you in a few minutes? I’ll have a shower first.”

“Sure.” Greg got up. “Tea?”

“Yes.”

Greg smiled and closed the door. Sherlock used the shower in a rush, feeling far more awake than he had done in a long time. When he finally began to walk downstairs, he could hear two little pleading voices asking if they could open their stockings now.

“Eat your porridge,” Greg told them. “Come on, you asked for porridge, you can finish that first.”

Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, hardly believing his eyes when he realised just how much Lily and Matt had changed in two years. Crops of dark hair on their heads, both still in their pyjamas.

“Lily, Matt. This is Sherlock.”

They both glanced up at him. Matt waved and returned to his porridge. Lily smiled. “Hello,” she said, before sipping her drink.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, taking a mug from Greg. “Thank you.” He took a seat down at the table beside Lily. “Merry Christmas,” he said, glancing up at Greg for reassurance.

“Merry Christmas!” Lily replied with a bright smile. “And now you’re awake, we can have the stockings.”

Sherlock smiled. “Sorry for the delay,” he said, watching them. Oh, they both had Greg’s eyes. Dark and wide, smiling little faces. He couldn’t help but gaze at them, still disbelieving at how much they’d grown.

They finished their breakfasts and Greg took their bowls away. “C’mon then,” he said with a grin. “Stocking time.” Greg led them out of the kitchen, telling them to cover their eyes as he steered them through. Sherlock followed a few steps behind.

He watched from the doorway, unable to mask his smile at their delighted gasps as they realised Santa really had come and the reindeer had done their business on the carpet. They both sat on the floor, taking their stockings from Greg.

Matt pulled item after item out, giving each a few seconds’ glance. Lily was precise, checking each item and letting out delighted squeals at her football stickers and pink hairbands.

And through it all, Sherlock could hardly take his eyes of Greg. He was so proud, relaxed, happy. Sherlock hadn’t realised how much he’d missed him until now.

If Moriarty hadn’t happened, if the Fall had never happened, would he have already given into this life? Would he have already been as much of a fixture in this home as the well-worn furniture?

Hovering in the doorway, he felt like an outsider. Like he was watching a perfect family through a television screen. At that moment, Greg looked up and caught his eye. He smiled and patted the sofa beside him.

Sherlock wandered over, taking a seat.

“What’s this?” Matt asked with a deep set frown, holding a Rubik’s Cube out.

Greg nudged Sherlock in the side. “It’s a Rubik’s Cube,” Sherlock explained. “You turn the sides and the aim is to make all the colours line up.”

“But… but… they’re already lined up,” Matt said with another frown. “So, did someone else win the game?”

“Do you want me to put it back to the beginning?” Sherlock asked him.

Matt nodded and handed it over. Sherlock began turning the columns, messing up the colours and transforming it into the complicated puzzle. He handed it back to Matt who immediately got to work.

Lily was already putting her stickers into the magazine, tongue hanging out of the corner of her mouth.

“Now they’re occupied,” Greg said with a smile. “Come help me with dinner, you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and got up, following him to the kitchen.

“You alright?” Greg asked, opening the fridge.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, leaning against the wall.

“Bit much?” Greg asked. “If you need to take some time out, you can just go upstairs for a bit.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said again. “I suppose I didn’t appreciate the rate at which they’d grow up.”

Greg laughed, taking the turkey out of the fridge. He turned the oven on before sliding it in. “Tell me about it. One day I blinked and they were both taller and could say actual words.” Greg straightened up, holding his hands out.

After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock stepped forward, taking hold of those hands. His body relaxed almost immediately at the contact.

“Want a tipple?” Greg asked. “I was thinking of making a mulled wine.”

Sherlock nodded. “Okay,” he said.

Greg stepped closer, capturing his lips in a gentle kiss.

Sherlock tilted his head. “I thought we were… not doing this?”

“I know,” Greg whispered. “But when I know I can, I don’t exactly want to resist, if you know what I mean?”

Sherlock nodded and kissed him gently. “Do you want me to help with the wine?”

“No, I’m good. Go and sit with the kids. Maybe teach Matt to do the Rubik’s Cube?”

Sherlock laughed and squeezed Greg’s hands. He walked out to the living room, pausing for a second before wandering in and taking a seat on the floor with Lily and Matt. “Need a hand?” he asked.

Matt nodded, holding the cube out.

“It’s alright,” Sherlock said. “Just follow my instructions.”

Over the next 15 minutes, Sherlock talked him through solving the cube, with Lily watching, rapt. He passed the cube back to Matt, who immediately began messing it up so he could get Sherlock to solve it all over again.

Sherlock laughed and watched, asking them about school and lessons. He had to ensure their education was good after all.

They all looked up when Greg entered with a tray of drinks, handing some squash to the twins and giving Sherlock a glass of wine. He joined them on the floor, his knees cracking as he got down. The twins laughed at the sounds, and Greg grinned. “Oi, shut up, you two,” he said, laughing.

Sherlock smiled at him. Soon, they were all on the floor playing Ludo, the faint smell of cooking turkey wafting from the kitchen.

Sherlock and Greg left the children playing while they put the potatoes and stuffing in the oven. Greg leaned against the counter, chewing his lip as he read his hand-written instructions.

Sherlock observed him from across the room. Yes, he really did need to visit an optician.

“You’re staring,” Greg muttered, lowering the paper.

“Watching.”

“Deducing, more like,” Greg replied, rolling his eyes. “What is it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the oven. “You need to put the pigs in blankets in now.”

Greg sighed, getting the tray out of the fridge.

Sherlock wandered towards him, reaching out and resting both hands on his shoulders from behind. He pressed his forehead to the middle of Greg’s back, closing his eyes. Greg was tense beneath his hands, frozen, his head hanging forward a little.

Sherlock took a step back, dropping his hands. “One step forward, two steps backwards,” he murmured, watching him.

Greg sighed and put the tray in the oven, checking on the potatoes as he did so. “God, I’m sorry,” Greg whispered. “I know I’m giving you mixed signals here. I just…” Greg shook his head. “Later. We'll do this later. Not now.”

Sherlock nodded back. He followed Greg out of the room. When dinner was ready, they sat and ate while wearing their Christmas cracker crowns, reading (and then explaining) rubbish jokes.

Tension radiated from Greg every time he and Sherlock were left alone, the two of them focusing on eating or tidying up or pretending to be keeping an eye on the children instead.

They sat down by the tree, the children handing out presents. They each had an enormous pile. Greg had a few from work, one from his sister and her family and one from Sherlock. It was to Sherlock’s astonishment that he accepted the present handed to him by Lily.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“From me,” Greg said. “From… well, it’s old.”

“Oh,” Sherlock whispered, turning over the label. Yes, the paper had faded, and it smelt as though it had been kept in a cupboard for at least a year. So, Greg had wrapped it while Sherlock had been away.

Greg reached over and squeezed his hand. “It’s just a… I dunno.”

Sherlock nodded and peeled back the red and gold wrapping paper. He pressed his lips together when he gazed down at the book cover. It was a beautiful copy of Andreas Versalius’ Fabrica, full of stunning, anatomically-correct drawings and labels.

It was an old book, but rarely handled, probably owned by a student or two and then passed through the family, stored in bookcases. All its previous owners had done was flick through the pages. Sherlock turned to the first page. Yes, it was an old copy, printed in the 1900s. The spine was sun-stained, but the pages pristine.

“Picked it up at a car boot sale,” Greg admitted. “Just… saw the bones pictures inside, thought it might appeal.”

“What is it, daddy?” Matt asked, walking over to the sofa. Sherlock reached out, stroking his shoulder.

“It’s a really important book,” Sherlock said, stunned at the Matt leaned so easily against him, trying to get a closer book. “He was one of the first people to really investigate the human body.” He smiled as Lily joined them, clambering up onto the sofa so she could sit on Greg’s lap. Both children and Greg were watching Sherlock, and he almost laughed at the sight of them, matching brown eyes all focused on him.

Sherlock smiled and sipped his tea, trying to find a way to talk about the book in a way which wasn’t inappropriate for five-year-olds. “He got plenty wrong,” Sherlock said. “But he did things no one else had done before.”

“And that’s good,” Greg said, leaning down to kiss the top of Lily’s head. “It’s good to try new things and not be afraid of what people think of you.”

Sherlock glanced up from the book and caught his eye.

“Right then,” Greg said with a grin. “What did you get from Auntie Jess?”

The children bounced back onto the floor, showing off their toys and films. Not long after, Greg put Toy Story into the DVD player, sitting across the sofa from Sherlock, his legs stretched out along the full length of it. Lily was sat down on the beanbag in front of him. Matt climbed up onto the sofa, sitting on both Greg and Sherlock's legs for a while before leaning against Sherlock's chest.

Each stretching out along the sofa, Greg and Sherlock’s legs pressed together, Sherlock resting his cheek on Matt’s head. Matt was asleep within minutes but Lily stayed awake through a third of the film before she gave in to her own tiredness.

Greg and Sherlock lay in silence, still watching the film, Sherlock occasionally flicking through the book and studying the drawings. He’d seen most of them many times, but it never lacked the fascination it had always held for him.

Greg took the children off to bed, and he and Sherlock found each other on the same sofa, bottle of wine between them. Greg reached up, cupping Sherlock’s cheek, rubbing his thumb along his cheekbone.

Braver now, Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him, resting one hand on his knee. Greg let out a soft hum, sliding closer to Sherlock to deepen the kiss. Sherlock closed his eyes, sinking into it. Greg pulled away and Sherlock chased his lips, not wanting to say another word. He wanted to feel, to just…

Greg rested his hand on Sherlock’s chest, stopping him. Sherlock looked up at him.

“You’re gonna go tomorrow, aren’t you?” Greg murmured.

Sherlock nodded.

Greg reached up and cradled Sherlock’s face in his hands, a sigh on his lips. “It’s just me, alright? You don’t go kissing anyone else. And neither do I. We might not be in a relationship, but you’re committed to me and I’m promised to you. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t need to come round or remember my birthday or give me hugs just because I need ‘em. And I won’t come when you click your fingers or when you get into a strop.”

“Understood.”

“We don’t go on dates. But we’re not friends. We just…” Greg shook his head, letting go of Sherlock and reaching for his glass of wine.

Sherlock stayed quiet, watching him. His bottom lip was stained red and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to lick it away. He remained still. Greg let out a shaky breath, dropping the glass back down onto the table, spilling some of the liquid over his fingers.

“I wanted to hate you, Sherlock,” Greg hissed, rubbing his hands against his knees. He looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes. “Why is it so damn hard to hate you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I… I don’t have an answer for that, because I know you should hate me.”

And Greg pulled Sherlock into his arms, clinging on for dear life. Sherlock stayed still, but couldn’t help but turn his head to breathe him in. When he realised Greg wasn’t planning on letting him go anytime soon, he closed his eyes, patting Greg’s back. “It’s fine,” he murmured. “It’s fine.”

“Get it outta your system,” Greg growled against his neck. “The games, crimes, cases, all of it. Run around London and stop all the bloody terrorists you need to, yeah? Then come home.”

Wordlessly, Sherlock nodded his head.

They traipsed up to bed not long after, Sherlock spooning up to Greg’s body from behind. He lay there, listening to Greg’s breathing, holding him long after he’d fallen asleep.

Sherlock woke when it was still dark. He slid out of bed and dressed, tiptoeing around.

Before he left, he found the post-it note Greg had kept ever since Sherlock had delivered it, the day of his own funeral. 

Sherlock re-read his own words. _I will be back for you._

Before he strolled out of the house and called for a taxi, he placed the note delicately down on the pillow, two new words added to his message: _I promise._


End file.
